


Universal Constant

by hibye



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Jim the universe jumping space man, M/M, Mind Meld, Soulmates, or rather multiple Alternate Universes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 08:43:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16594625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hibye/pseuds/hibye
Summary: Where there is a Jim, there is always a Spock.Jim knows this because he keeps getting sucked into wormholes through space and time.





	Universal Constant

One

His teeth are chattering with cold, but the way those eyes regard him is astonishingly warm. That face, so familiar and unfamiliar – but the eyes belong to someone he doesn’t recognize.

“I cannot tell you everything,” Spock-not-Spock says. “I will show you what I can.”

Against the chill, his touch feels like nothing. Even having read about this, Jim is unprepared for the physicality of it, the way his breath feels sucked all the way from the soles of his feet, his skull and brain opening like a flower. The sinking sensation and being caught in a soft and steady web. Hands, or something, are pressed against his ribs and spine, keeping him steady, walking him forward through a tunnel of whispers, ideas, colors – snips of images and words that he can’t quite hold onto, like a flash of a camera freezing a moment in time.

The grit of sand in his mouth, his body sunbaked and relaxed on the dunes. The purr of blue fabric under his fingertips, the raised edge of the Starfleet insignia. An undiscovered planet, brilliantly violet and surrounded by ice rings on the view screen, the rush of data. The smell of cologne with vanilla underneath.

Pieces of Spock held back behind frosted glass.

And Jim can tell that he is trying, trying to keep the flood at bay, but Jim can feel it anyway, soaked down deep into every thought and memory, syrupy-sweet. They knew each other. They know each other. They loved each other, once. And will again.

And will always.

“How can you know that?” he asks, but Spock won’t answer that. He’s already given away too much.

When it’s all over, a year in the past, Jim still remembers that feeling. When he and Spock (his Spock) lock eyes across the bridge, somehow understanding each other without words, it is like all of the pieces inside of him have clicked together. Like a burst of sunlight. Sweet. It is the same as when he found it in that meld. It hasn’t left him since.

Two

When he wakes up, Spock has a beard. That is his first clue that something is very, very wrong. The second clue is that Chekov tries to kill him (twice). By the time someone asks him to approve a public execution, he knows he’s in the wrong universe.

Jim comes to this conclusion fast enough to avoid being killed outright, which is a passing grade by his book. It is easy to feign cruelty, but it feels wrong. Slimy, clammy, clenching in his throat. But his smiles are met with disdain and confusion, and somehow that’s worse.

This Spock – with a beard – follows him to his quarters when he tries to find space to think. Part of Jim wonders if this will be another assassination attempt. He has discovered a dagger strapped to his thigh and he rests his fingers on it.

But Spock just stands in front of the door as it hisses shut behind him. His hands are clasped behind his back. His eyes are dark and, with a swooping feeling of déjà vu, Jim notices that they look both familiar and unfamiliar.

“You are not my captain,” Spock says.

Jim should be a good liar by now, but he’s not. He stumbles. “What?”

“There is no need to continue your charade,” Spock continues. “I will have the truth one way or another.”

Adrenaline rushes through Jim and he can feel himself shaking, limbs tingly-cold and then hot. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Negative,” says Spock. “That would serve no purpose.”

“Oh,” says Jim. He doesn’t want to ask why not.

Spock explains anyway. “If I were to kill you, command would fall to me. I am content with my current position and have no interest in yours. If I can, I will find a way to exchange you with the correct Jim Kirk.”

That works for both of them. Jim finds himself smiling, despite his dire situation and the bruise Chekov managed to land on his cheek. “I should have known I could trust a Spock, no matter where I am.”

As expected, Spock has nothing to say to that, but something in his expression shifts. If Jim were anyone else, he might not have caught it, but he does. It is the barest hint of a smile.

In the end, as he steps aboard the transporter to be sent back, he turns to Spock (with a beard) one last time. “How did you know it wasn’t me?” he asks.

Spock says, “I could not feel you.”

Then he sends Jim on his way.

Three

The next time, he is not on the ship. His shuttle was sucked through a hole in space, and when he opens his eyes he is a child, his hands in Spock’s hands, and Spock’s face is chubby with childhood fat.

“You are my best friend,” says little Spock. His voice is unexpectedly flat for someone so young. Jim barely has time to register how big and brown Spock’s eyes are before Spock’s forehead is rested against his own, a flood of warmth seeping down his shoulders and pooling in his chest, opening up his ribcage for a deep breath that feels like the very first. “Promise me we will always be together.”

Jim wants to promise, but he can’t. That’s something that no one can promise.

Here comes Spock’s mother, scooping Jim up into her arms. He has never seen her up this close, and the scent of her lavender perfume swallows his senses. “It’s time for lunch, you two,” she says, so comfortable that he wonders how many afternoons he has spent just like this, crouched in the garden with Spock, knees dirty from exploring.

His shuttle comes thundering out of the sky next, crashing into the nearby trees and setting them on fire. It’s only a few hours after that before Jim’s crew finds him again.

In sick bay, as Bones is checking him over for damage, Jim says, “How many more times can this happen to one guy?”

“Infinitely, in theory,” says Spock.

When Jim looks at him, he remembers those enormous brown eyes, soft and unshielded. He remembers the way that his fierce, innocent childhood affection sank down over him like a heated blanket. He remembers Spock’s small, level voice: promise me we will always be together.

Four

When the light fades, Jim is standing alone on a beach, toes buried in pink sand and bioluminescent water lapping at his ankles. This world is breathtaking, he thinks. Whatever phenomenon just passed over him seems to have left no damage, except for the way his hair stands on end. Smiling, he bends to pick up a shell that the tide has brought up the shore.

“Jim!”

Glancing up, he sees Bones and Spock running down the beach. His first reaction is concern, wondering what has gone wrong, but his next his panic – Spock is grinning ear to ear, and then he’s right there, throwing his arms around Jim in a crushing hug. The force of it sends them sprawling onto the sand, Jim sat upright and gasping, Spock kneeling over him and shaking with laughter. No, tears.

“What are you doing?” yelps Jim, and Spock pulls back to look at him, cradling his face in his hands.

“Oh, I know, I know, I’m sorry,” he says. “Humans don’t do emotional displays. But you had me so worried, just… let me have this.”

His fingers rake through Jim’s hair, once, twice, and Jim’s brain short-circuits entirely. The waves rush over his lap, soaking through his clothes. Over Spock’s shoulder, Bones stands impassive, his face like stone.

“Are you okay?” asks Spock.

“I don’t know,” says Jim, which is the truth.

Spock sits back on his heels. His hair is wind-tossed, cheeks flushed green, eyes glistening with tears. He has never looked so different, not even with the beard, and yet still so Spock.

“Let me feel you,” he murmurs, fingers drifting down Jim’s face, and suddenly his skull and brain are blooming, and the ground is opening up, and the air is sucked straight from his lungs, and they are walking together in a tunnel of memories, and thoughts, and whispers. This time, Spock is holding nothing back. It is a cacophony of emotion, fear so strong it is nauseating, love so strong it aches. The tug of artificial gravity as their shuttle lands planet-side, the joyful touch of the sun on his cool skin, the sour-salty-sweet taste of Jim’s own sweat as Spock slides down his body. Of course, Jim thinks, of course a species of touch telepaths might develop this way, open and effusive and sharing. He must be somewhere else again. He wonders at it, and Spock leans back with a gasp.

“You’re not my Jim,” he says. “Who are you?”

Beside him, Bones is drawing his phaser. There is no emotion on his face.

“Wait,” says Jim. In the distance, he sees another anomaly, a dancing spire of rainbow light dashing along the dunes and gone again. “I think I know what happened.”

It takes several tries, but he ends up on the right beach, with the right Spock, dour and sopping wet.

“I request that you refrain from further forays into alternate universes, captain,” he says, and that dispassionate voice has never sounded so good.

Five

The bell jingles and Jim looks up. The air smells sweet and darkly warm, like Spock’s eyes, like coffee. Bones is coming through the door of the bakery, still wearing his scrubs, a faint stubble growing in. “I’m exhausted,” he says. “Can I get an extra shot? I know it’s bad for my heart, but I’m the doctor, not you.”

Spock comes up behind Jim, one warm hand against the small of his back. There is a palm print in flour on his sleeve. “Caffeine is not a substitute for sleep, Doctor. It only blocks your body’s signals of exhaustion.”

“That’s what I said,” grouses Bones. “So give me the goods.”

Spock comes around to fire up the machine. Jim has never made coffee like this in his life. He stares, notices that Spock’s pointed ear is pierced. Out the window is classic San Francisco fog.

“You all right there, Jimmy?” asks Bones, waving a hand in front of his face.

Jim can’t find the words. Spock takes his hand and places a square of marzipan in his palm. Both of them are wearing wedding bands.

Six

They are old. Spock is sitting next to him on the sofa, a cat in his lap. On the vid screen is a young Vulcan woman, hair cropped short and eyes intensely dark. She is dressed in Starfleet command gold, receiving an award for valor, her skin slightly blue from the glare of a thousand cameras. The scroll reads “Captain Amanda Kirk.”

Jim must make some sound, some movement, because Spock’s hand shifts to rest on his knee. His knuckles are large and wrinkled, like the hands of a Spock he once knew.

Seven

He’s in engineering, grease smeared across his face, watching as the reboot finishes and gives him the green light. Whatever he’s done, he’s fixed it. He wipes his dirty hands down the front of his red uniform shirt.

“Good work, Lieutenant,” says Spock.

Jim isn’t sure what to say, so he nods. Spock reaches out and touches his fingertips, briefly, and then turns to walk away.

Eight

Jim sits bolt upright in bed, shouting as if waking from a nightmare, but he doesn’t remember going to sleep. Spock looks up from the desk in Jim’s cabin, still dressed in his pajamas, a cup of tea steaming on the tabletop. There is a scar zig-zagging down the center of his face.

“Another nightmare, ashayam?” he asks.

Jim moves to stand, pausing when he cannot feel his feet. He looks down to see two advanced prosthetics, painted in hot rod flames.

Nine

When Jim can see again, he is standing in the middle of a dorm room at the Academy, but something isn’t right. There is art pinned against every wall, a few pieces on the ceiling. Spock is sat on the bed across from Jim’s, tuning some Vulcan instrument that looks like a harp. He glances up, eyes familiar and not familiar, a faint smile on his face.

“I hope you do not mind that I will be performing the song I wrote for you tonight at the gala,” he says.

“You wrote me a song?” asks Jim, stupidly. He can feel the abrasive pressure of braces in his mouth, the pull of adhesive bandages on his knuckles.

“If you do not remember,” says Spock, in a tone that implies he is feeling very indulgent, “you are welcome to listen to me practice.”

His fingers are deft, sensitive, as they move up and down the strings. The song is bittersweet, to start, and then only sweet. Spock does not have to watch what his hands are doing. His eyes are on Jim.

Ten

It is hot on Vulcan, but Jim is acclimated. He is walking to class, dressed in traditional robes that shield him from the sun’s rays. Spock is next to him, going through flash cards. On Jim’s hand is writing in khol, smeared from sweat, that says, ‘Michael bday present.’

“Oh, look, here come the humans,” remarks one young Vulcan.

“That’s us,” says Spock, and he links his arm through Jim’s.

One

Jim hits the floor hard enough to knock the wind out of him, and for a moment he does not dare move. He waits, but at last, at last nothing is moving. He can feel himself breathing, the solidness of the deck beneath him, the cool and almost clinically clean taste of the air inside of the Enterprise. Carefully, just in case his knees have reformed backwards, he pulls himself into a kneeling position.

He’s back home. There are no red banners of the Klingon Empire. Only the smooth, colorful walls of his beloved ship.

“I get it!” he screams. He slams his fists onto the floor of the transporter. “I get it, all right!”

Scotty comes around from the console, crouching down in front of him. Caution stops him from reaching out, but his tone is gentle. “Do we have the right Jim Kirk?” he asks.

Tipping himself back onto his haunches, Jim heaves a sigh. He feels his own face, searching for any differences – makeup, glasses, scars, anything. It feels all right.

“I can tell you,” he says, “if you can show me the right Spock.”

Scotty frowns, not understanding. Jim has been in his shoes, but he understands now, and he is tired.

“Where there is a Jim, there is always a Spock,” he says. He knows, somehow, that he is in the right place when those eyes are no longer familiar-but-unfamiliar. When he has Spock, his Spock, in front of him again. That is the litmus test. _I get it_.

After a moment, Spock arrives at the transporter room as summoned. Jim can’t find it in himself to stand properly; he stays knelt down and aching, staring up into that face, the one that he knows better than any other, can read like a book, line by line, letter by letter, and the spaces in between. Spock’s expression reveals nothing, except to Jim, who can see concern in the set of his brows.

“So, Captain,” says Scotty, “is this the right man?”

“It is, Mr. Scott,” says Jim, and the universe settles into place, clicks inside and hums like a working machine. “Yes, it is.”

That night, after Spock’s shift is over and Bones has satisfied his need to poke and prod every inch of Jim’s body, Jim knocks on the door to his first officer’s quarters. It’s an old habit, and not necessary, but Spock has long stopped harping on it. When he opens the door, his voice is soft, the line of his shoulders open. “I trust you are well, captain.”

“Please, call me Jim. Please.”

Spock lets him inside.

“You know I have a knack for popping in and out of existence,” says Jim. He crosses the room to sit on Spock’s desk, nudging aside a stack of books.

“I would describe it as a propensity for ‘popping’ into _different_ existences,” Spock clarifies.

Jim refuses to be derailed. “And you know I met the older you. Spoke to him.”

“Yes.”

“I got the impression from him that we – that we are always together. I don’t know how to explain it. Like we are infinite. Infinite diversity in infinite combinations, except for this… universal constant, that’s us. That in any universe, wherever there is a Jim Kirk, there is always a Spock.”

Spock is listening patiently, but he has not moved from where he stands by the door, hands hidden behind his back. If he thinks Jim is talking crazy, he is doing a good job of not letting on about it.

“I think it might be true,” says Jim. “Can I show you?”

“That is…” Spock’s eyes drop down and away, and that’s not what Jim wants; he needs to see.

“I think this is important, Spock,” he says. “Let me show you. I want to show you.”

Of course, Spock knows the bare details. These experiences of Jim’s are invaluable for research into other dimensions, time and space travel, and so on. But Spock doesn’t know, can’t know, what it feels like to be touched by Spock-not-Spock, to know simultaneously that the bond they share spans universes, but is also specifically theirs, belonging to just them, this-Spock and this-Kirk.

Spock allows Jim to take his hands and move them to his temples, inviting him in, the way he slips through without Jim having to crack his mind wide open, like there is a space for him. Jim gives. Here, Spock’s tears against his cheek on the beach with sand between his toes; here, the smell of Spock’s tea waking Jim from sleep; here, the sticky sweet taste of marzipan, the hiss of the espresso machine; here, the wrinkled texture of Spock’s hands, old and spotted, as they watch earth come into view from the bridge. These are all of the things he has seen. I will always love you.

Then, to his amazement, Spock gives. Here, Jim’s bright laughter ringing through the rec room and making Spock smile, secretly, inside; here, the brush of their hands as Jim hands off some information, the feeling not like electricity but like the comforting slide of warm sheets; here, Jim leaning back with a grin and saying ‘checkmate,’ and Spock thinking he is clever, so clever, so full of surprises. These are all happening now. I have always loved you.

“Do you see it?” Jim asks, out loud. He can feel Spock’s forehead pressing against is, warmth radiating through him, deep beneath the skin.

Spock’s breath is against his mouth, and then he kisses him, once, twice, three times. His eyes are open, bottomless, and sweet. “I see it,” he says.

“You and me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Entirely self-indulgent and posting before I Regret.


End file.
